


behind closed doors (i only have eyes for you)

by iamthegeneralissimo



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: F/F, but also maybe internalized homophobia, i promise there’s sexytimes, i tried to fix mon-el, lena’s married to jack, slowish burn, the carol au, wait hear me out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-03-07 20:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18881080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthegeneralissimo/pseuds/iamthegeneralissimo
Summary: The midcentury AU in which Lena is a post-war industrialist who likes taking her coffee black at Noonan’s, where Kara’s been waitressing ever since she moved to National City.—‘Life in the suburbs wasn’t as bad as Lena first made it out to be. There’s a stillness she’s grown accustomed to, a welcome reprieve from the city’s ceaseless kineticism. But she knows still waters run deep—that you can spend an entire lifetime calling the same street your home, be surrounded by the same families and outgrown by their children, and never really know for certain what happens behind closed doors.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose this is my thesis on how we are our own worst enemies no matter what time period we find ourselves in. Or whatever. Also, this Lena wears glasses—you’re welcome.
> 
> The next chapters will be up within a few days.

Lena adjusts Jack’s tie with steady, practiced hands.

‘I’ll miss you, my darling,’ he says, eyes brimming with fondness. ‘I’ll miss you too, Jack,’ she smiles at her husband who stands at full height under her ministrations. Her feet are bare like they always are when they ready themselves in the morning, their walk-in closet like an armoury, the world their battlefield. He stoops to place a kiss on her forehead.

Lena drags a finger along the length of his tie, a smirk playing at her lips. ‘Paisley’s a little flamboyant, don’t you think?’ Jack winks as he shrugs his suit jacket on. ‘Not for someone who’s extremely secure in their masculinity, it isn’t.’ He checks his wristwatch just as the town car pulls into their driveway. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in a week—be good, yeah?’

Lena trails down the staircase after him and says to the door, whispering on its hinges, ‘Always.’ She waves from the bay window and watches the car wind its way down their tree-lined avenue, errant leaves surrounding the base of thick trunks.

Life in the suburbs wasn’t as bad as she first made it out to be. There’s a stillness she’s grown accustomed to, a welcome reprieve from the city’s ceaseless kineticism. But she knows still waters run deep—that you can spend an entire lifetime calling the same street your home, be surrounded by the same families and outgrown by their children, and never really know for certain what happens behind closed doors.

 

—

 

Kara punches her timecard at Noonan’s just as the woman walks through the front door. ‘That’s her, Danvers, look.’ Nancy balances a tray laden with thick ceramic plates on one hand, the other propped loosely on her hip. ‘She started coming in a few weeks ago. Who do you think she is?’

‘Someone very important and clearly,’ Kara muses as she unfastens her name tag and apron, ‘someone who probably has better things to do than spend Friday nights here if she had a choice.’

‘And yet here she is like clockwork. Always three cups of coffee, alone, for a couple of hours. Tips real good too, the other girls say.’ Kara nods absently. She picks at flecks of mustard on her powder blue dress and sighs.

Nancy tells her the woman sometimes makes calls using the phone out back and it doesn’t take much effort for Kara to picture her leaning against the wallpaper, faded with age, with the receiver tucked into her shoulder. She can almost see the woman’s finger making quick work of the rotary, the other hand toying with her earring—still warm from her lobe.

There’s an understated elegance to the way the woman glides through the dining room. Kara peers through the kitchen pass, itching to run her hands over the condensation beading along the woman’s wool coat. In one smooth motion, the woman shrugs it off and brushes back a curtain of dark hair. The cut of her white dress shirt and the blazer clinging to her shoulders strike Kara as transgressive.

She tears her eyes away. ‘I’m heading home, Nance. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Nancy nods at her from the sink, elbows-deep in soap suds. ‘Later, doll.’

Dinah Washington croons from the beat up radio atop the range hood when she finally makes her exit.

There’s a bite to the air outside and it clears Kara’s head. When had she ever been struck by a vision so heady? And at what point in her short life had she ever thought another woman alluring?

She finds Mike in the back alley, lounging against the brick wall and taking slow drags of his cigarette. He brightens visibly when she approaches and grins, boyish and sweet, ‘Hey, gorgeous.’ Kara steps into his arms. Mike smells faintly of beer, mostly of tobacco. ‘How was your shift?’

‘I’m a little tired but it wasn’t too bad.’ She ignores the ache in her heels and the pang in her belly when she tells him about the gentleman who came in for a late breakfast and drowned his pancakes in syrup, about the busboys who juggled fresh eggs on their break and her attempts to tell them off in between bouts of laughter. She tells him about how Nancy moaned on and on about her son’s first days at kindergarten; she’d pressed a handful of worn photos into her face and warned her of the perils of motherhood, threatening to give Mike a stern talking-to if he didn’t propose anytime soon. She’d cried, ‘What are you waiting for?’

But Kara had come up short. She tells Mike all of this, save for the woman who waltzed in just as her shift ended. For what _could_ she say about her?

Kara reflects on how easy it is being with Mike when he regales her with stories of his own day at the Matthews’ textile mill. It seemed even easier, when they were much younger, to fall in love with a boy who knew his way around a sewing machine better than she did. He’d mended the tears in her dresses, tidied her hemlines as they moved through the years and sewn every loose button, presenting his handiwork with a flourish and relishing in her delight. She remembers their correspondence during the war, earnest and hopeful for their future, and the flood of relief she’d felt when he came back whole, spared somehow from the collective trauma that haunted his comrades—that plagued the entire country.

Mike eased into his family’s empire with an enthusiasm and self-assurance Kara envied most days, as though his place in the world was secure. And, Kara supposes with the way his eyes shone whenever they landed on her, it must be so.

 

—

 

The downpour starts just as Kara lets herself through Noonan’s back door. She uses one of the stainless steel fridges to give her reflection a quick once-over, glad about not having to redo her hair. ‘Oh, shoot,’ she groans to Nancy when the other woman passes by, ‘Do you think anyone will notice I don’t have my name tag?’

‘I think people here could care less about a lot of things,’ Nancy shrugs. ‘You move pretty quick anyway. I don’t think anyone will notice.’

Kara smooths down her apron while stifling a yawn. It’s the first of many weeks she’ll be working nights; she’d rejoiced when she heard the news because then she might finally be able to catch—

The woman from the other night is seated in a booth, staring through the street-facing window. Rain lashes hard against it. The woman turns her attention to a sheaf of papers before her, presses a pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose and furrows her brow.

Kara grabs the carafe sitting atop the hotplate. She curses inwardly: she should have arrived earlier to brew a fresh batch. It’s something she’ll make sure to do from now on, management be damned, because it’s just coffee—cheap and cheerful, she reasons, at ten cents a cup. She imagines shaking out fragrant, if illicit, grounds from the tin and into the paper basket, hot water spurting forth like a rebuke.

‘Refill?’ Kara eyes the almost-empty cup when she approaches the booth. ‘Yes,’ the woman looks up from her paperwork. ‘Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you.’

Kara fights to keep the carafe steady and the cup from overflowing as the woman surveys her over the rim of her glasses. There’s a crescent-shaped stain in deep burgundy and Kara yearns to bring the cup closer to her face. She wants to ask where the woman buys her lipstick from, what her shade might be called.

‘Thank you.’ The woman nods once. Kara pushes the creamer and sugar closer to her, testing a hypothesis. She smiles, ‘No need. But thank you all the same.’

Kara beams, ‘Sure thing.’ Then a group of men in rumpled suits shuffle in, looking damp and miserable, and she redirects her attention to them. She scribbles their orders onto her yellowing notepad and plies them with hot, fresh coffee. By the time she exits the kitchen bearing a tray laden with slices of banana cream pie and baked alaska, the woman is gone. In her place is a tip, generous as Nancy had alluded to, and a note which reads:

 

**_‘Thank you, Kara. -Lena’_ **

 

Kara touches the spot on her chest where her name tag should be and wonders. She wonders on the subway home and on every step and every landing separating her from her apartment. She finds the name tag on her kitchen table, buried under back issues of Life.

 

—

 

Crackle and static, barely even a voice, assign Lena a boarding gate. She gathers her belongings, thankful for the blessedly short line.

‘Good evening, Mrs. Luthor.’ The flight attendant flashes a broad smile when she is ushered into the cabin. ‘Lovely to see you, and on a weekday, no less. Can I show you to your seat?’ The woman doesn’t wait for an answer when she relieves Lena of her coat and valise.

‘Jacqueline.’ Lena manages to smile back. ‘Metropolis called and I couldn’t say no. I didn’t think you worked red-eyes anymore. Not that I am unhappy to see you, you understand.’ She says it loud enough for her fellow passengers to hear, hoping the woman leaning into her seat and fluffing her pillow won’t read too much into it.

‘Of course, Mrs. Luthor,’ Jacqueline nods and gestures to the seat. Lena settles in, momentarily distracted by the other woman’s rising hemline when she places the valise into the overhead compartment. ‘I’ll be back,’ the stewardess reassures.

Jacqueline makes her reappearance, manicured hands wrapped around a champagne flute. ‘There’s been some union issues,’ she whispers, ‘and I picked up a few extra shifts. Lucky for me, I suppose.’

‘Yes, lucky,’ Lena nods absently when the she leans across to place the flute on her tray. Lena catches spice and something floral in the air, through the haze of tobacco, and it makes her head swim. Jacqueline appraises her once more before attending to the rest of the cabin. ‘Let me know if you need anything else at all. And I mean anything, Mrs. Luthor.’

Perhaps she’s just very good at her job, Lena concludes, glad to be sitting down and not having her knees give way. She’s no stranger to the trappings of her surname, the way people morph and shapeshift under its spell. Interactions like these are routine, typical, nothing more and nothing less. And so, as Lena does when these things happen to her, she says nothing.

 

—

 

If she tries hard enough, Kara can see into the future. She sees her dark-haired, blue-eyed children frolicking in a garden of Mike’s making, lush and coveted by neighbors for miles. She sees summers seated in lawn chairs and bouncing on its heels by a blazing grill, and cool autumn nights wrapped in scratchy blankets in front of a well-stoked fireplace. She sees the band on her finger, plain and gold, catching the morning light as she fastens Mike’s cufflinks and kisses him goodbye.

If she tries hard enough, Kara sees the ceremony—her resplendent in white and Alex, stoic but not unfeeling, with her arm around Maggie weeping openly. She can feel Mike pressed against her and the gentleness with which he’ll cup her cheek; the chaste kiss he’ll place on her lips eliciting thunderous applause up and down the aisle.

She’ll play devoted wife to his devoted husband, the two of them evolving into perfectly capable parents living out a perfectly hewn existence. She can almost feel the satisfaction that comes from carrying out a task one is expected to accomplish, and there is a sense of purpose and trajectory to their course she finds reassuring.

If she tries hard enough, this is all Kara can see.

And if she tries even harder, she can stop herself from picking at the veneer of happiness like a scab, exposing the unease lying underneath it all.

 

—

 

It’s not lying in wait, Kara reasons, the way she watches until Lena is almost through with her second cup before mustering up the courage for her approach. She is buoyed by something she can’t identify, her heartbeat making itself known with every step that brings her closer.

‘We missed you last Friday,’ she tries to sound cheerful rather than accusatory when the words spill out of her. ‘Actually we were all kind of relieved and hoped you’d finally found something better to do than spend Friday nights here with us.’

Lena peers over her tortoiseshell frames at Kara, then at the kitchen pass where Nancy quickly ducks her head. She laughs, ‘Do you make it a habit to discuss guests behind their backs?’

‘Just you,’ Kara confesses, transfixed by the way Lena’s eyes crinkle when she smiles. Lena pushes her glasses back up the bridge of her nose and tucks a stubborn, dark lock behind her ear. ‘I was away on business in Metropolis, where evidently the coffee is not as good as you make it.’

Kara swells with pride. ‘I’ve been trying to keep it fresh for—I mean, since I started this shift. Not that it isn’t fresh all the time. I just—’

Lena cuts her off with a wave of her hand and another laugh, bright and knowing. ‘I appreciate it all the same.’

 

—

 

It’s just after midnight when Kara kicks off her flats and hangs her coat up by the door. Old newspapers, unfinished job applications and half-written stories litter her kitchen table. On the wall hang the few framed photos she owns of Eliza, Alex and herself, looking their happiest.

Taped against her icebox is a photobooth strip of her and Mike from one of their early dates at the harborside carnival. She wrenches it open and her hand finds the last can of beer which she takes to her sofa along with a copy of the evening paper. Much later, she brushes her teeth at the kitchen sink, cursing the cold water. She wills her mind to dream about Lena in her booth, staring out into the rain.

 

—

 

‘Dinner?’ Lena offers, cigarette dangling from her lips, when Jack walks into the kitchen. ‘I kept a plate warm for you.’ He smiles in relief and reaches for a bottle of whiskey from the bar cart. ‘Sure, sweetheart, I’m famished. Drink?’

‘I’m all set.’ Lena gestures to the glass of wine sitting next to her ashtray. She collects Jack’s plate from the oven somewhat gingerly before setting it down in front of him.

Lena watches him tuck in when she feels her shoulders start to shake with suppressed giggles. ‘What?’ Jack smiles through a mouthful of peas. ‘Something on my face?’

‘No,’ Lena laughs openly now. ‘It’s just, we’ve become so good at this, haven’t we?’ They’re both doubled over with laughter and grasping at each other’s arms until Lena’s mirth gives way to chest-heaving sobs. Jack rubs her back and whispers, ‘There, there, darling—it gets better.’ His meal goes cold.

Lena swipes at her eyes, not minding when she’s lied to this way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking around! I’ll be wrapping things up in a third and final chapter within the next few days.

The bell peals overhead, short and bright, announcing her presence. ‘Lena,’ she hears Kara cry, ‘What are you doing here on a Tuesday afternoon?’

And, looking down at her wristwatch, Lena supposes it is. Perhaps Kara is right to be surprised by her sudden visit but she’d spent the entire morning running simulations of this exact scenario in her mind, of the different ways interactions with the woman before her might play out that day, that week, and for the rest of their lives. ‘I’m here to see you,’ she admits. Lena lets the words fly and she feels gloriously exposed for one heart-stopping moment.

‘I’m finishing my shift soon,’ Kara informs her. ‘I can stay and bring us something to eat, if you like?’

‘Alright,’ Lena acquiesces. Kara’s smile is reassurance enough. Maybe there is no roadmap, no guide to where they’re headed.

‘Alright,’ Kara echoes, shaking her golden head. She points to a booth in the back. ‘Grab that one and I’ll meet you there in a bit.’

Lena settles into the vinyl and takes a moment to apply a fresh coat of lipstick. It’s the first time in years she’s drawn it on with such care. Kara brings them a reuben, extra pickles and chips, and a carafe sits warming the tabletop. Lena pours coffee in between dainty bites and she makes a face at the amount of sugar Kara stirs into her cup. 

‘What?’ Kara tilts her head when she licks the teaspoon clean.

Lena chuckles and shakes her head. She craves these small moments, their blessed mundaneness, and Kara herself.

 

—

 

‘Kara—’ and Kara remembers how Lena’s never formally asked for her name before ‘—are you doing anything next Saturday?’

‘Well, I’m not working, that’s for sure, and Mike and I don’t have any plans.’

Lena is in the middle of scratching notes onto one of the many blueprints she brings with her to Noonan’s. Kara watches, transfixed by her sprawling, confident strokes. She’d pored hungrily over the newest ones, fascinated by the patents Lena was developing at any given moment. ‘For your eyes only, you understand, or my lawyers would have my head,’ she would say drily and Kara would do her best to picture Lena capitulating to faceless, suited men in midtown corner offices.

She’d struggle to contain her laughter: Lena yielding to anyone’s will but her own? What a sight indeed. 

‘My husband’s hosting a soiree next weekend to shore up some business—they’re dreadfully routine and lately I’ve been finding them quite drab. To be perfectly honest, I don’t have a lot of friends in this town and I thought, well, it might be nice enjoying your company outside of Noonan’s for once.’ 

Lena doesn’t look up from the work she’s laid out in front of her.

Kara’s heart soars then plummets when Lena admits to something she’d only ever guessed at but never had the courage to ask outright. She frowns. She’d assumed the existence of a husband: tall and virile, likely barrel-chested with a healthy head of hair and the kind of deep, probing eyes women her age were encouraged to stare longingly into. Or he could be older and statesman-like—an exact replica of her father. Or, Kara frowns, might he hail from across the Atlantic? God forbid he be of Mediterranean persuasion, evenly tanned and dubiously romantic.

Kara’s frown deepens.

Perhaps Lena had picked up a husband on one of her many business trips, as one might adopt a stray. 

A gaggle of friends seemed a given too, but Kara had wondered after spending an afternoon scrutinizing her local library’s microfiches for any traces of the Luthor family. There were snippets here and there about striking early, if a little aggressively, in the state’s agriculture industry. They’d dabbled in oil and gold, and made contributions to the city’s foundations modest enough to keep the newshounds at bay. 

Kara had even come across a photo of the clan. Beside a stern-looking gentleman stood an even sterner-looking matriarch clutching the shoulders of their two children—a handsome young man and a girl with piercing eyes. Kara felt those eyes slice through her even through the grainy black and white. Reclusive and guarded, the articles read, until the economy collapsed and took the Luthor empire down with it. It was Lena, they wrote in awe, who single-handedly resurrected it in the shadow of the war.

‘I’m not sure what to say,’ Kara responds slowly, smothering her delight in the implication that Lena thought of her as a friend.

‘Oh, say yes, won’t you?’ Lena bats her eyelashes, heady and slow. ‘Bring your boyfriend too.’

 

—

 

Kara doesn’t bring Mike.

Lena had pushed a slip of paper with her address into her hands at Noonan’s, which she looked at repeatedly as the cab drove through wide, empty streets just to confirm she wasn’t completely lost.

 They screech to a halt in front of the property. Kara tries one more time. ‘Are you sure—’

‘It’s your shindig, lady. I ain’t from around here.’

‘Neither am I,’ she mutters darkly.

Her heels catch on the flagstones outside just once, mesmerized by the crush of bodies within. Crystalware and laughter filter through an expansive window. She runs one hand over her chignon when she gets to the front door, and before she can even ring the bell it swings open to reveal Lena as though she’d been standing there the entire time. ‘Lena,’ Kara breathes. ‘You look—’

She’d always thought of Lena as beautiful but something in the moment—the flush of Lena’s cheeks, her averted eyes—elevates her effortlessly in Kara’s mind, sears an image of her so indelible that it wouldn’t matter if she went blind. She would carry Lena with her, always and forever. Dark tendrils frame the column of Lena’s neck and Kara wonders what it would be like to gently brush them aside and have her lips find purchase on warm skin.

She’s sheathed in an emerald number, the cut of it modern and clean and clinging to places that draw Kara’s eye. She blinks at the plane of Lena’s stomach and the flare of her lips.

‘This is nothing,’ Lena gestures haphazardly at her torso.

Kara continues to stare at the skin straining against the upper part of the bodice and Lena shivers—whether from the cold or Kara’s gaze, neither of them could say.

‘Aren’t you going to come in?’ Lena murmurs.

When Kara doesn’t say anything, Lena takes her hand and leads her through an expansive foyer, past guests who call after Lena and burn inquisitive stares into their retreating backs, and into an equally expansive kitchen. ‘Now then,’ Lena presents her with a glass of wine which Kara accepts gratefully. It’s cool and crisp and it refreshes her throat, suddenly parched.

Lena asks belatedly, ‘Where’s Mike?’

‘What?’ Kara stammers, unprepared. ‘Oh, he couldn’t make it.’

Suddenly a voice rings out, ‘Are you here, my love?’

‘Jack,’ Lena calls back. _My husband,_  she mouths to Kara. ‘Come and meet my friend.’

Jack walks in, equally impeccable, with slicked back hair and an easy smile. ‘Ms. Danvers,’ Jack takes Kara’s hand into his own and presses a kiss to her knuckles instead of shaking it, mischief dancing in his eyes. ‘Lena told me you were coming tonight. I’m so pleased to finally make your acquaintance.’ His gaze remains steadfast when he folds her hand into both of his own.

‘How do you do?’ Kara feels like she’s being examined somehow, or back on the flagstones outside, missing the step and feeling her stomach drop out from underneath her.

Jack turns his attention to Lena. ‘You’re needed outside. Mr. Lord’s chucking a fit—you know how he gets when we leave him with the brandy unsupervised. Go on, I’ll take good care of Ms. Danvers.’

Kara watches Lena narrow her eyes at her husband. Something passes between them, unseen. ‘Behave yourself,’ Lena says sternly.

But Kara doesn’t feel too threatened by the man rifling through his kitchen cupboards muttering something about cigarettes.

 A stray puppy then, she muses. _Curious._

 

Later, when Kara watches Jack’s hand settle against the small of Lena’s back, she marvels at the easy way husband and wife gravitate towards each other. They’re never apart for long. The realization of it stings her.

She downs the rest of her drink when she sees Lena’s fingers toy with the buttons of Jack’s shirt and linger on his ascot.

She turns and makes her way toward the back terrace, offering polite smiles to everyone she passes in the hallway. The moon is slung low and her eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light outside. She walks far enough away that the noise of the party recedes to a low murmur.

Kara startles when Lena appears by her side. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ She takes a slow draw from her glass. ‘It’s wonderful,’ Kara replies earnestly. ‘You keep such interesting company.’

Lena waves a manicured hand around. ‘Spare me, Ms. Danvers. They’re not half as interesting as you.’ It lands on her forearm and stays there. Kara doesn’t pull away.

Lena’s image is soft, blurred all around the edges, and Kara finds her beautiful like this too.

A burst of laughter carries from inside. They both turn to find Jack standing on the staircase and gesturing wildly. He is rewarded with another hearty cheer. ‘Jack is magnificent,’ Kara feels the need to inform Lena of this. ‘I’ve never seen someone work a crowd quite like he does.’

‘This is his world,’ Lena says simply. ‘His father was a diplomat and he almost went into politics.’

‘If all this kowtowing gets old and he decides to run for office, tell him he’s got my vote.’

Kara finds joy in the lines of Lena’s upturned mouth. ‘And what about you, Ms. Danvers? Keep any secrets hidden in that perfectly coiffed head of yours?’ 

‘Perfectly coiffed—oh,’ Kara blushes now and she’s torn between wanting Lena to turn away and ignore her completely, and the desire to expose the flush of her skin in its entirety. ‘I’m nothing special.’ The urges pass. They’re close enough that their shoulders brush every time Lena brings her glass to her lips.

 

—

 

Jack teases her through a mouthful of toothpaste. ‘I like your new friend.’

‘Who? Kara?’ Lena adjusts the straps of her nightgown and dabs at the last of her eyeliner, leaving her fresh-faced and young. ‘Kara,’ Jack drags the last syllable out. ‘Even her name is pretty—wherever did you find this one?’ He spits into the sink.

‘Diner on Broadway and Seventh. Noonan’s.’ Lena shrugs. ‘It’s just coffee.’

‘Just coffee,’ Jack mocks but not unkindly. ‘Is that where you’ve been spending your Friday nights?’

‘I get work done there too.’ But Lena feels caught out in a lie when Jack says smugly, ‘You never were one for cruising in parks.’

‘No, sweetheart, that’s your thing.’ Their eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror and they laugh despite themselves.

 

—

 

‘Tell me about your new friend,’ Mike asks one day and Kara doesn’t know where to start.

Does she tell him about the women she’s started to notice when she walks down the street? Does she tell him about the nights she’s teetered on the brink of sleep only to be dragged from the edge by Lena’s image surfacing before her? That the only salve for her excruciating, delicious torment is to work her hands feverishly between her thighs until she shudders once, twice, as many times as she needs while muffling Lena’s name into her pillow?

 

—

 

The implied level of trust catches Kara off-guard: ‘Do you think you could look after the house while Jack and I are away?’ Lena asks over a shared slice of cherry pie and coffee. ‘You don’t have to, of course. We’d have no trouble at all finding someone else but I thought—’

‘Sure.’ Kara cuts her off with an answer that comes as easily as the playfulness with which she jousts Lena’s fork with her own.

Without a crowd to fill its insides the house feels like a mausoleum. Kara thinks about the aftermath of the party, half-open bottles, canape platters and glasses strewn about like tombstones—the end of a lively conversation here, and over there a memorial for a group of people who toasted to life, love and commerce mere hours ago. The house is immaculate now and much too large. It’s the kind of residence in which two people could go days without seeing each other.

Lena’s office is a less stilted affair. There are pencils and erasers scattered amongst various instruments and tools. There are stacks of manuals and dismantled machinery; a toaster here, a television remote there and a portable radio with its innards spewing. Kara runs her hands over each piece of the radio and yearns for Lena to take her apart too—for Lena to examine her with the same deliberate gaze.

Kara stays in the house for an entire week, as per Lena’s instructions, and she manages to keep away from the master bedroom until the very last day, caving to a moment of weakness. 

In fact, it’s a relief when she finds the box of pin-ups stashed away in Lena’s nightstand and not Jack’s. A tidal wave of shame washes over her first, then the stirrings of something different when she flips through the images. She blames Lena for not hiding them very well at all, and Alex for having a similar box squirreled away under her bed when they were young—Kara knows what secrets look like, and how keeping them drove Alex to dark places.

Kara had peeked then too and never looked at Alex the same way again.

 

—

 

Kara plasters on a smile and holds up a bottle of cheap whiskey in lieu of a proper greeting. She knows it isn’t enough to fool her sister, who opens her apartment door, takes one look at her and arches an eyebrow. ‘Just get in here,’ Alex sighs. ‘But you’re telling me everything later. Or I’ll tell mom.’

 Kara groans. ‘Mom’s dead, Alex.’

 ‘Exactly. That makes keeping secrets from her worse.’

‘Hey, Maggie,’ Kara hugs the brunette fiddling with the pots and pans bubbling on the stove. ‘Little Danvers—’ Maggie reaches to place a kiss on her cheek, ‘Quick, taste this.’ It’s savory and sweet and it transports her back to Eliza’s table, legs dangling off the floor, shoving Alex so she could lick the spoon. Kara opens her mouth for another bite. ‘What is it?’

Maggie frowns. ‘I’m not too sure but it’s good, right?’ She beams.

Kara manages to get through dinner without breaking into tears, a good omen. They’re tidying the table when she whispers to Alex, voice thick, ‘I think I understand you a little better now.’

‘Where is this coming from?’ Alex barks out a laugh, negotiating plates and glasses with both hands. She’s cut short when she sees the look on Kara’s face. Kara mumbles something under her breath and she feels Alex slide her arm around her shoulders. ‘What’s wrong, kiddo? Is it Mike? Did he do something?’

Kara hears Maggie clear her throat, a film of tears obstructing her vision. Maggie reaches to relieve her of the knives and forks she’s collected. ‘Go sit with Alex,’ she smiles gently. ‘I’ve got this.’

Kara makes Alex wait half an hour before she stops crying completely. She hears her own voice, cold and clear, when she says, ‘I think I might be attracted to women too.’ Maggie and Alex share a glance. Kara wants to ask if she looks devastated enough for someone whose entire world has shifted on its axis.

‘Well, tell us about her,’ Maggie prompts with kind eyes. Kara breaks out into a shy smile.

 

—

 

Kara inhales her milkshake. They’re sharing another sandwich—club this time, extra bacon and aioli instead of plain mayonnaise—and Lena pours her third coffee of the night. Her face contorts after one sip.

‘What’s wrong, Lena? Do you want me to brew a fresh pot?’

Lena shakes her head. ‘Don’t you ever wish for something stronger after working for so long?’ Lena informs her, in the same breath, about the apartment she keeps in the city—for those long days at the office, _and would Kara like to see it?_

‘Oh, I would,’ she responds, her heart racing. ‘Very much so.’ 

They step into the night, December air nipping under Kara’s coat and she presses into Lena for warmth. Lena runs her hand up and down Kara’s arm to create friction. It does little to keep the cold at bay but Kara doesn’t care. Lena flags a cab down with her other hand and all around them the city shimmers with promise.

Kara wonders, on the elevator up to Lena’s apartment, struck dumb with fear, whether it’s too late to rescind the offer. Something about entering Lena’s space without the buffer of inebriated party guests and Jack’s easy bluster fills her with a sense of dread.

But then Lena turns the key and asks, ‘Do you mind if I change into something more comfortable? It’s been a long day.’

Kara smiles genially. ‘It’s your home.’

Lena disappears down the hallway, leaving Kara to absorb her surroundings in peace. Much like the house in the suburbs there are barely any pictures of Jack and Lena. It looks more like an extension of Lena’s office—the guts of things strewn about. Kara picks her way over to the couch and runs a hand over one of the pillows, imagining Lena nodding off to sleep in front of the television set, her glasses askew.

It makes her smile and she gathers the folds of her dress so she can sit comfortably in front of the low-slung coffee table.

Lena reappears in a robe holding a tumbler of whiskey in each hand. Kara coughs a little when the alcohol stings against a cut in her mouth and then again when Lena settles down next to her, robe riding up to expose the meat of her thighs.

She feels overdressed and in the spirit of fairness, if nothing else, divests herself of her sweater.

As Kara fiddles with the collar of her blouse Lena reaches up and murmurs, ‘Here, let me.’ Her robe opens a little, but it escapes Lena’s notice, attention captured by something else. ‘There we are.’

Lena looks pleased. Hungry. Kara can’t be sure. She’s entered dangerous territory, blissfully unaware of what shape or form its apex predator will take, or when it might choose to strike.

‘Your eyes are,’ Lena whispers, almost to herself, closer than she’s ever been to Kara, ‘so incredibly blue.’

Kara can count every eyelash fluttering against Lena’s cheek. ‘I’ve never really seen yours before,’ she whispers back.

The split second it takes for Lena to shift away and remove her glasses makes Kara grieve. ‘Here they are. Just the two of them.’

A terrible idea, Kara concedes, because now she’s drowning in an ocean, enveloped by a bed of seagrass.

A telephone rings in the distance. Once, twice, then a third time.

Lena sighs and repositions her glasses. She stands and goes to pick up the receiver, her voice low and dangerous.

 ‘This better be important, Jessica.’

 

—

 

‘What’s it like being married?’

 Lena doesn’t look up from the guts of the Cisitalia 202 she’s tinkering with in her garage. She fiddles with the spanner, buying time, before answering mildly, ‘It’s nice.’ Kara peeks into the engine and hands her different spanner.

‘What’s so nice about being married?’

The memories wash over Lena, sickly sweet in their sentimentality. She remembers Jack nodding solemnly when she’d asked to keep her name. He’d said, ‘I think it’s only fair.’ But the clerk at city hall didn’t seem to share the sentiment. She sees the Spheers, elaborately dressed and occupying enough pews that she’d smiled nervously at the officiant.

Lex had stood alone and off to the side in a suit so black she wondered if he’d worn the same one to their parents’ funeral. But he’d looked so handsome and she couldn’t think of any other moment in which she’d loved her brother more. He’d embraced her after and whispered, ‘I’m so proud of you, Anastasia.’ The nickname fell easily from his lips as though they’d never grown up and drifted apart. ‘But don’t worry. Lost princesses don’t stay that way for long.’ Then he shook Jack’s hand and left. 

Lena cried when she heard he’d been drafted, and when she was forced to helm their crumbling empire, but had very little left to shed by the time his commanding officer appeared at her door, knuckles bone-white against the empty box and flag he held in his hands.

She remembers making fast friends with Jack as a teen and their early, clumsy attempts at romance. The subsequent confessions about their true desires came soon after and the initial jokes about using marriage as cover gave way to an official commitment—a promise to keep each other safe and defiant in their own little way against a hostile world.

For years Lena felt like she existed solely behind a pane of glass, the layers multiplying and thickening with each passing year, and it was enough. It had to be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Life got in the way!’ -every fanfic writer ever
> 
> Apologies, it took longer than promised to round out this story. Life really did get in the way but I also fell into the trap of wanting to make things perfect. I’d love to know what your thoughts are because I feel like this has been so stylistically different to the work I’m used to producing.
> 
> Thanks again for sticking around!

Lena knows even before Kara puts the record on that there is no escape.

She watches Kara drift toward the player, her stockinged feet making barely any noise on the carpet, swilling the dregs of her drink in one hand. Coasters, Lena berates herself when Kara sets the glass down on the maple countertop; she needs to stop by the store to buy coasters. Never mind that she’s unlikely to extend an invitation to her apartment to anyone other than the person before her.

Lena watches Kara handle the arm gingerly as she aligns the needle with the groove on the record’s periphery. She lets the opening bars wash over her and seal her fate. It’s the only album she’s played since they first met, a fresh arrangement of an old jazz standard. The first time she’d heard it was right in the middle of downtown rush hour. She’d held up an entire block of cars at a single stoplight, transfixed by the track worming its way into her ears. She bought the record soon after and memorized every part of the song: when the subtle mistakes were made in the session, when the music surges into its heart-stopping coda.

‘Dance with me.’

Kara doesn’t ask, Lena realizes. She’s instructing. There is no escape.

The track, Lena knows, is exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds long if it’s an eternity. She finds herself standing up from her place on the sofa and braces for the collision of their bodies, soft and sweet. Kara’s hand hovers above her waist before it settles, her grip firm and secure.

The track’s reverb, once dreamlike, becomes immediately overbearing. She’d let herself coast through it when she listened to it alone but now in Kara’s presence there is only unease. What could Kara be playing at? They sway, hips aligned, pressed extraordinarily close to one another. Lena grasps Kara’s hand as she dislodges the confession from her throat—

‘Jack isn’t my husband.’

Kara keeps them swaying and Lena chokes on her perfume when she remembers to inhale, deeply. ‘I mean, he is. We’re legally married but we’re not,’ she pauses because there’s a lifetime of excuses to admit to and a million more things to add but she settles for: ‘Intimate.’ She’s spoken in code for most of her life and she’s not sure anyone might understand her now or be willing to crack her cipher. Kara holds her fast, taxing her in a way that drives her mad and yet, still, they sway. ‘I am so fond of you,’ Lena hopes articulating herself this way is enough. ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand how.’

But she’s deathly afraid Kara does indeed understand and it’ll be exactly like the only other time she’s made a similar confession—one which cost her dearly at boarding school nearly a decade ago. Eyes so young, she’d thought, shouldn’t be filled with so much hate. Even then Lena had heard the rumors of people being sent away to be cured of similar predilections. So palpable was her fear of exile but, as people do when confronted by their fears, she’d behaved irrationally. It felt so natural to want someone of her own form and to want to bridge the chasm wrought by her desires.

Kara Danvers was as deep, as tempting a chasm as any.

The song crests then fades. Kara turns to her, eyes shining and filled with something decidedly not hateful. It makes Lena yearn.

‘Show me.’ Kara says. Instructing, Lena realizes.

And so Lena does, in utter disbelief at the way Kara yields.

 

—

 

Mike nudges the beer closer to her, sniffling once. This is how Kara learns about his father. On the roof of her apartment surrounded by discarded bottles and cigarette butts and strewn-about detritus. The baseball game crackles over a portable radio and the entirety of National City lies before them blissfully unaware of their strife.

‘It was different back then,’ he whispers. ‘Not much better than it is now. He married my mother out of obligation. She was pregnant with me by the time they walked down the aisle. He loved her in his own way but she never understood it.’

Kara reaches to stroke his hair. He forges onward, tears streaming down his face. ‘They fought more than they agreed on things. He even brought someone home once. I can’t remember his name but I remember he brought me a balsa plane kit to play with. I still have it in my room somewhere. Mother didn’t speak to him for weeks. Then he withdrew, started keeping to himself even around the house, until one day I woke up and he was gone.’

Kara listens until Mike’s voice runs itself hoarse. He doesn’t meet her eyes when he asks. ‘Do you love her?’

‘I don’t know, Mike.’ Kara keeps her own eyes cast downward. She knows his heart is breaking but there is no other way to describe what she feels for Lena.

‘Did you ever love me?’

She tells him the truth. ‘I always will.’

The ninth and final inning cuts through the night air when Mike whispers, ‘All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.’

 

—

 

Thoughts start to make themselves known within Lena’s already crowded mind: sometimes it’s Kara in the half-shadow, if not submerged completely in darkness; often it’s Kara in the glow of her pendant lamps or in the last of the dappled sun reaching through her apartment blinds. Never is it Kara in broad daylight nor is it ever Kara surrounded by throngs of people, speaking to her in a language of their own devising. What Lena would give to lace her fingers through Kara’s before them, free of judgement. Does it not bother Kara, Lena wonders, or does she not think about it at all?

One day she learns what does bother Kara: ‘Have there been others,’ she asks, suckling at the hollow of Lena’s neck, ‘Before me?’

No, Lena wants to say, dismissing a lifetime of discreet and expertly planned encounters. ‘Yes.’

‘And was it the same?’

The question is a ball lobbed low and gently. ‘Better,’ Lena smiles into Kara’s hair. ‘The best,’ she gasps when Kara noses her way down her chest to capture the ample swell of skin there. ‘It’s never been like this.’ Kara preens.

Then on another day Lena asks, ‘Would you like to go away?’ Kara does a passable impression of someone watching _See It Now_ with rapt attentiveness. ‘Away,’ she repeats dumbly when Lena’s hands snake down her sides then up and into her blouse, ‘with you?’

Edward R. Murrow glowers from behind his desk. Both women ignore him now. ‘Well, yes.’ Lena peels article after article of clothing when another realization dawns on her: sometimes it’s Kara above her and other times it’s the opposite but she’s glad she never has to choose because Kara Danvers everywhere—against her tongue, the heady smell and hard press of her—is better than no Kara at all.

 

—

 

Lena glances at the clock on the wall. ‘Help,’ Jack pleads while clutching a tie in each hand. She sighs and holds him at arms length while she decides. ‘I wish you’d told me you were colorblind _before_ we’d gotten married. I would have reconsidered this whole thing if I knew how many social calls you’d be making—how many outfits I’d have to put together for you.’

‘But I did tell you, don’t you remember? That time in Mombasa?’ Jack huffs and rubs the inside of Lena’s wrist with his thumb. ‘Green,’ she hums and loops the garment through his collar and into a firm knot. ‘I recall nothing of the sort.’

Jack huffs again when a lock of hair falls into his eyes while he looks down at Lena. ‘I’m nervous,’ he says slowly. Lena palms the notch in his lapel and steps back to admire her work. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ she reassures him. ‘James sounds wonderful and I know he’ll think the same of you. Bring him over sometime, won’t you? You never let me meet any of them. I don’t even remember the last one’s name.’

‘Neither do I,’ Jack presses his lips against her cheek. ‘Oh, and before I forget.’ His hands dive under a pile of shirts behind her to procure a box of chocolate truffles. ‘Happy Valentine’s day, my darling.’

 

—

 

Lena makes the reservations at the train station in person. Just a short trip to Metropolis, she informed the attendant, who counted out her change and clucked approvingly, ‘The southwest corridor is lovely this time of year.’ She contemplated having Jessica book a flight to save them time but something about the anonymity of the sleeper train—on which they would exist neither at their origin nor terminus but on the liminal spaces on the map—appealed to her. The would exist neither here nor there, but be together all the same.

When she returns to the station it’s with Kara and two valises in tow. Diesel, pungent and oppressive, stings her nose. On the platform she stares at the gravel between the crossties, tallying the lighter stones against the darker grey ones and waiting for Kara to finish buying the evening paper. She unfurls her collar to keep the wind at bay.

Kara waves the front page in her face and shakes her head in equal parts disbelief and awe. ‘We could be getting a white Christmas this year.’ Lena smiles and hands her one of the ticket stubs which Kara tucks carefully into the folds of her coat. ‘A souvenir,’ she thanks Lena shyly. They take a light supper in the dining car where they leaf through menus bound in dark leather and attendants in smart vests linger in the corners of the cabin. Lena feels the color rise in her cheeks when Kara’s hand slides over hers. ‘I’m so glad we’re here,’ she says simply.

‘And I’m so glad you decided to come with me.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Lena spots a man in a tweed sports coat glance at their entwined hands. The pith of something, cold and hard, settles into her stomach. ‘Kara,’ she murmurs, hating herself for asking and for the way her brusqueness makes Kara’s eyes widen. ‘Don’t. Not here.’

The economy of her words is enough to summon a spectre that descends on them both and swallows them whole. Kara pulls away and unfolds her newspaper to read the rest of it in silence. Alone on the observation deck Lena watches the sun set and entire landscapes flicker by when she realizes the woman at central station was right: the southwest corridor was lovely that time of year.

 

—

 

Kara’s sentence, as it appears to her, is death by a thousand small cuts and being given no time for her skin to knit itself together. Physically Lena was always within reach but she’d learned not to stand too close in public, not to let her gaze linger on the other woman for more than a passing moment, and to mask her jealousy during her many social calls over their stay in Metropolis.

To be so close and yet unable to consume Lena the way she wanted to, the way she was used to when they were by themselves, was a lance straight through her very self. ‘How long are you going to be like this?’ Kara asks when Lena cries apologies into her skin in the privacy of their shared room. She wonders about the structural integrity of the walls around them—would they be enough to stave off the outside world and keep themselves safe within? She wants to take Lena by the shoulders, look straight into her eyes and say, ‘I would rather you—enigmatic, mercurial you—than the life I led before we met.’ With Lena came clarity in spades, even if the cost was so dear. But all they do when another day dawns, much like all the others before it, is dress facing away from each other. The great spectre yawns its dark maw and spits them out onto the streets of Metropolis. Lena disappears into the gilded sheen of Luthor Corp’s midtown headquarters and Kara is left standing on the sidewalk for a long time after. She buys a single train ticket back to National City and in the carriage shields her eyes from the harsh sunlight streaming through the windows.

 

—

 

Much later, Kara lets Maggie nudge her toward her coworkers who point her in the direction of the speakeasy. It’s discreet and perfect for her intentions, shapeshifting with every passing second. She nurses a drink at the bar and stares everywhere but at the woman across who seems overly keen to catch her eye. She fiddles with a matchbook and considers lighting one before remembering: she doesn’t smoke.

Instead she tries not to think about how Lena hasn’t been to Noonan’s once since their trip. She ignores how the barback’s raven hair reminds her of Lena’s, albeit a pale comparison. She tries not to remember the night she before she left Metropolis when she’d run the first bath she’d ever had in her life—a luxury she’d never been afforded as a child. Lena had stepped into the room, parting billows of steam, and offered to wash her hair. She’d toweled her dry after, the look of hunger in her eyes not lost on Kara, and left a chaste kiss on Kara’s collarbone just above her heart.

 

—

 

The woman who answers Kara’s door does so with a tilt to her head. ‘You must be her. Kara’s always been partial to brunettes.’ Lena flashes a smile, the kind she offers to people she thinks might be liable to slip a knife between her ribs. She asks tentatively, already aware of the answer, ‘Is Kara home?’

‘She’s out of town and will be for a while.’ The woman stares openly at her now. ‘It’s Mrs. Luthor, isn’t it? Lena?’ Lena bobs her head in response and extends one hand. The woman takes it then opens the door wider. ‘I’m Alex, her sister. Why don’t you come inside? I just made some coffee.’

Lena manages to color in the outlines she’s drawn of Kara’s life as she steps into her apartment for the first time. ‘She’s adopted,’ Alex explains when she catches Lena staring at a photo of her and Kara next to a blonde woman who appears more Kara’s mother than Alex’s. ‘Happened right out of nowhere. Like she was some sort of alien flung out of space.’ She hands her a mug of coffee. Alex doesn’t offer cream or sugar and Lena doesn’t ask. It’s almost as good as Kara’s.

‘Kara says you’re—’ Lena falters, not knowing where to start or how much Alex knows. ‘That you’re, well—’

‘It isn’t the easiest life to lead,’ Alex interjects softly. ‘But it is possible. I’ve told Kara before. Maybe you need to be told too.’

When Alex doesn’t say anything else Lena moves to the window and watches sparrows flit between the trees on the street below. She remembers Kara and the sweater she constantly bemoaned was lost to her forever. They’d woken up at midday more than a few times in a single week in a tangle of limbs and sheets, with Kara constantly having to rush to make it to her shifts at Noonan’s. Lena had picked the garment up off the floor and hung it in her closet fully intending to return it. She’d taken it out once, to nuzzle against the worn fabric, and then a second time to draw it over her own body; she’d tied the sleeves together without extending her arms through it and, in a burst of imagination, felt Kara’s embrace.

 

—

 

‘Sit with me, Lena.’ Jack pleads from the living room when she walks through their front door. Lena slides the deadbolt home and shakes her head when she feels Jack’s hands heavy on her shoulders. ‘We need to talk.’

Lena interrupts, turning abruptly to face him. ‘Nothing has to change in this arrangement.’

‘But it does, dearest. I hate seeing you so unhappy.’ He fixes her a drink, something amber and neat, and she wonders if it’s for the last time. ‘Who says I’m unhappy?’ Lena says unhappily, taking the glass. ‘It’s too hard, Jack. I don’t know if I can do this.’

‘You know these things happen whether or not you’ve decided they should.’ Jack looks sorrowfully at her over the rim of his own glass. ‘There’s never going to be a good time. All you can do is be brave and take the leap.’

But I am not brave, Lena wants cry out, thinking of all the things she should have done for Kara and for them both. Then both their ears prick at the sound of a car door closing. Jack stands to look out the bay window. ‘We both know you can do this. You’re going to have to. Do this, I mean.’ He bounds halfway down the hall before Lena can catch up with him. The sight of the woman framed in their doorway stops her in her tracks.

‘Good evening, Ms. Danvers,’ Jack smiles pleasantly down at the woman on his doorstep. Kara shifts her weight and tries to return the gesture. ‘Well,’ Jack moves to collect his keys from the catchall and a Harrington jacket from the coat hook. ‘I’ll leave you two to it.’

‘Hello, Lena.’ Kara wrings her hands. ‘I tried your apartment in the city and you weren’t there. I spoke to Alex and she said—’

Lena closes the distance between them before Kara can complete her sentence. ‘I am so sorry,’ she says in between bruising kisses until Kara moans and lets Lena slip her tongue past swollen lips. ‘Stay,’ she pleads.

 

—

 

Divocrce papers are drawn up. A media circus ensues. Lena resents, over coddled eggs one morning, being referred to as a haughty divorcee and an undeserving heiress to ill-begotten wealth. ‘As though I barely lifted a finger to secure my family’s legacy.’ She’d waved a piece of toast around as she fumed. Kara, to Lena’s dismay, had merely giggled and swiped at the jam smeared in the corner of her mouth.

And so the frenzy continues until one day it leaves Kara sprawled out on a plush new sofa, her head in Lena’s lap. She lets Lena trace lazy circles into her hair and other shapes which she tries to guess the names of and purposely gets wrong just to feel Lena’s breath wash over her when she laughs. The sofa lies just off-centre in a living room, surrounded by the kind of accoutrements one might find within a _home_ , just east of National City. The perfect place for a new beginning, Lena had whispered into Kara’s ear as they stood at its threshold for the first time. Kara supposed it must be with its low shingled roof and exposed beams, its nooks and crannies filled with things they both loved. They’d spent many a warm night on the deep porch listening to the cicadas and each other’s breathing, occasionally walking barefoot into the garden, blades of grass tickling at the soles of their feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Drop me a line @soyelgeneralissimo on tumblr. We can gush about Cate Blanchett’s bone structure together.


End file.
